Boobs On Order

Boobs in a Box

There was something comforting about the final meeting with the surgeon before my surgery this next Tuesday. At least that's what I discovered. Prior to this final visit with the plastic surgeon, I was waiting. Waiting to learn more about the recovery process for my bilateral mastectomy. Waiting to find out how much I can lift, how long until I can drive, what types of pain medicines I might be taking. It was comforting to learn those details.  And I also finally have something to do. I can finish packing. I can buy a few more supplies. I can ensure my disability and FMLA paperwork are in place (without the doctor, I couldn't even start this process).  Having something to do is helping me to relax, calm my stomach, loosen tightened muscles in my shoulders and legs.  All I can say is, thank God.

My favorite part of the appointment? The pre-surgery breast photo shoot, two to the front, two to the side.  I'm calling them my boob mug shots.  I tried to pose for the shoot, but the surgeon quickly instructed me to drop my arms back to my side.  So much for my modeling career.

Dr. Lenert, measured, assessed, discussed the fact that she may or may not be able to install the implants right away, depending on the thickness of my skin.  If no to immediate implants, she'll place tissue expanders under the pectoral muscle instead.  So I figure that when I wake up, I will find out the results of the 2012 election and whether I have breasts at the same time.  Either way, I'm happy to sleep through the last of this pain in the ass (the election and my mastectomy).

After completing our detailed discussion of skin, drains, and other surgery unpleasantness, the doctor casually remarked, "Well, we'll get those ordered," meaning she will order my new breasts.

I almost laughed out loud. They're ordering my new breasts?  Are they coming via UPS or FedEx? As a friend Lisa remarked, are they eligible for super saver shipping?  I want to know if the package will also contain a ribbon-tied box of bonbons, considering the likely high price of those new breasts.  My breasts are on order.  I'd like a C cup, please.  Oh, okay, I'll take what I can get.  As long as they don't try to kill me like my real ones did. Just mare sure you send them express, and make sure they're here by Tuesday.

The Things I Wish I Were Told When I Was Diagnosed With Cancer

by Jeff Tomczek  (link to original article)

Your relationships are about to change. All of them.  Some will get stronger. They will probably not be with the people you would expect. The people you want to handle this well might not be able to for a variety of reasons. Some of the reasons will be selfish. Some of them will be entirely innocent and circumstantial. All of them will be forgivable because no one plans for cancer. Carrying bitterness or anger won't help your recovery. Fighting for anyone to stick with you won't cure you. Those who can, will.

You will be determined to have more energy than you do. You will convince yourself that you are thinking straight, are able to handle all of this and do not need anyone. You will run out fuel. Your body will change first and your mind will follow. You won't lose your mind, memories or sensibility. It will all come back.   But, you will be different. You will never have the same sense of self. You should embrace this. Your old self was probably really great. Your transformed self will be even better. Give into what is
happening and trust it.

You are going to feel fear. Even if you are normally stubborn, confident and seemingly invincible you will finally find yourself admitting that you are scared of something. Cancer is scary and incredibly confusing. The unknowing will eat at you worse than the disease itself. You'll need distractions. Music and sleep will probably be the ones you resort to most. Reading will become difficult. So will watching TV or movies, having conversations, writing and basically everything else. They call it "chemo brain" for a reason. You will feel normal eventually, just a new kind of normal.  When you feel afraid let yourself lean on those around you. Cry. Be vulnerable. You are vulnerable. There will be time for strength, but never admitting weakness will cause anxiety to mount and your condition to worsen. Let it all out. Yell if you need to. Sing when you feel up to it. Sob uncontrollably. Apologize for your mood swings. Treatments and prescriptions will often be the cause of them. The people that love you will understand.

The people that love you will be just as scared as you are; probably more. They will be worrying even when they are smiling. They will assume you are in more pain than you are. They will be thinking about you dying and preparing for life without you. They will go through a process that you will never understand just like they will never understand the process you are going through. Let them process. Forgive them when they don't understand. Exercise patience when you can. Know that those who were built for this will be there when you get to the other side and you will all be able to laugh together again. You'll cry together too. Then you'll get to a place where you will just live in   the world again together and that is when you know that you have beaten this.

The sooner you recognize that you are mortal, the sooner you can create the mentality for survival. There is a chance you might not make it. Just like there is a chance that you will. Don't look at statistics. You are unique and what is happening inside you is unique. Your fight is yours alone and there are too many factors to compare yourself to others that have had your condition. No one will want you to think about death, but you won't have a choice. You will think about it from the moment you are given your diagnosis. Come to terms with it. Calmly accept it. Then, shift every thought you have into believing that you won't die. You are going to beat this. Your mental focus on that fact will be more powerful than any treatment you receive.

Your doctors and nurses will become your source of comfort. You will feel safe with them. If you do not feel safe with them you need to change your care provider immediately. There is no time to waste. This shouldn't be a game played on anyone's terms but yours. When you find the right caretakers you will know immediately. Do not let insurance, money or red tape prevent you from getting the treatment you deserve. This is your only shot. There is always a way. Find those hands that you trust your life in and willingly give it to them. They will quickly bring you a sense of calm. They will spend time answering your questions. There will be no stupid questions to them. They won't do anything besides make you feel like you are the most important life that exists. They will never make you feel like they don't have things in control. They will be honest and accessible at all times. They might even become your friends. You might celebrate with them over drinks months or years after they have cured you. They deserve your gratitude, respect and appreciation daily. If you get upset at them during treatment know that they'll forgive you. They get that you're going through something they can't imagine- but they understand better than anyone. They see it every day and they choose to be there because they want to make the worst experience of your life more tolerable.

You will need to find balance after treatment. Start by seeking balance during treatment. Eat well. Sleep well. Listen to your body. Explore meditation. Experiment with new forms of exercise that aren't   so demanding. Embrace massage and other body therapies. Go to therapy. A therapist will be able to guide you through your journey in ways you could never fathom. Do not be too proud to speak to someone. You cannot afford to store up the intensity of the emotion that comes with fighting a life-threatening illness. Let it out for yourself. You will begin to hear your voice changing. That voice is who you are becoming in the face of mortality. Listen to that voice. It will be the purest,
most authentic version of you that you have ever known. Bring that person into the world -- strengths and vulnerabilities and everything between. Be that person forever.

You will inspire others. It will feel weird. People you haven't spoken to since grade school will be in touch. Ex-girlfriends, former colleagues... even people you felt never wanted to talk to you again. The influx of interest in your seemingly fading life will be greater than any living moment you have ever experienced. That support is what will shift a fading life into a surviving one. Be grateful for every message. Be appreciative of each gift and each visit. There will be moments where all of this attention will make you feel lonelier than you have ever felt in your life. In a hospital room full of people with messages stuffing your inbox, voicemail and mailbox you will find yourself feeling completely alone. This is when you will realize that you could afford to have a stronger relationship with yourself. That only you walk this earth with 100% investment in you. Make the investment and use this as an opportunity to reexamine your self-worth. Love yourself more than ever and recognize how much love there is for you in the world. Then start sharing that love. You will come to see that even when you are the neediest person you know you can still be giving. Giving will make you feel better than taking.               

When you get to the other side you won't believe it. They will tell you the disease is gone. Everyone you know will rejoice and return back to their lives. You'll constantly wonder if it is coming back. Slowly this feeling will fade, but cancer will always be a part of you. It will define how you see the world moving forward. You're going  to feel like the future is a funny thing to think about because the present is going to suddenly seem incredibly important. Keep moving. You'll be more productive. You'll understand who truly loves you because they will still be there. You'll want to meet new people that connect to the newly evolved version of your old self. You'll want to let go of those that don't "get" who you are now. You'll feel a little guilty doing it. Then, you'll move on. You don't have time to waste. The greatest gift you've been given is that you now understand that and you're going to make the most of every second. You're going to be the most passionate person you know going forward. Translate that passion to a greater purpose. Be fearless again.

I was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of 27. Now 28, I have been told I have no trace of the disease in my body.

Jeff Tomczek is a freelance writer and the founder of C2Bseen
Follow Jeff Tomczek on Twitter: www.twitter.com/C2Bseen

Prison Hair Series Part II

In the name of continuing to document the growth of my hair (Look, Ma!! I'm no longer bald!), I bring you the October issue of Prison Hair Series.

I guessed the hair length at 1 inch. What do you think?  I had no ruler handy, and frankly, I'm not that ego driven that I had to "prove" how long my hair really is.  I just figured it at 1 inch.  This month brings no images of a power fist pump, but instead shows a smiling pumpkin head gal look.  I'll have enough hair to flip back and forth soon enough. Just you wait.

And the hair couldn't come back at a better time since I'll need it in order to look fine and fancy in the hospital during my finally-scheduled double mastectomy.  Yes, folks. I'll be voting and having my boobs removed on November 6, 2012.  Wish me luck. Wish me new boobs.  Wish me cancer free (my greatest dream of all).

I know that Asshole 2 and Asshole 3 (the 1 cm masses on my liver) will still be there. But at least this surgery will remove Asshole 1 (the 1 cm mass in my breast), along with the possibility of any further assholes growing in that venue.  I consider that a big old check point in my favor.  Don't you think so?

Sing it with me and think of my boobs:

Na, na, na, na!  Na, na, na, na! Hey, hey, hey! Good bye!

Cute Shoes and Boob Jobs

And I'm off. Finally have the sign off from my Oncologist for a bilateral mastectomy, hopefully to be scheduled in early November. As I've said before, my aunt and uncle are blessedly offering to let me stay with them while I recover.  My uncle's only request is that the surgery not be on Election Day. Got it. Do not mess with the man's ability to vote. 

While I'm scared of the surgery and recovery pain, I am very happy to finally be able to have these petri dishes of cancer removed.  I know that there is a great deal of controversy regarding mastectomy for Stage IV breast cancer folks. At the same time, women are living longer with this disease and there are more and more studies regarding the survival benefits of mastectomy for those with metastatic/Stage IV breast cancer.  Towards the end of this approval process, I had begun to joke that I would find a place for a back alley boob job.  When a friend asked where I would find one, I said, "I don't know. Maybe Mexico."

But the approval is here and ding dong the boobs are gonna be gone.

Thankfully I am doing well.  Even though I'm not on chemo, and only receiving Herceptin to stop the tumors from growing, my tumor markers keep dropping.  My last visit to the Oncologist showed my tumor marker dropping yet again, from 26 to 21.9 (normal range is 0 to 38.6).  My Oncologist tells me that my cancer is stupid and hasn't figured out the meds I'm receiving (every good virus will mutate and learn to fight the meds being given).  In this case, stupid is a good thing.  So because I'm doing well, I can have my boobs removed.

Where do the cute shoes fit in, you ask?  Well, about three weeks ago I decided to wear my cute shoes.  Nothing complicated.  Just an open-backed mule with a two-inch wedge. But here's the deal.  My feet are still a little numb due to neuropathy, and apparently feeling your feet is important when wearing open-backed cute shoes.  Things seemed to be going well the morning of the cute shoes, my descent down my front stairs seamless. But then my foot hit something. Maybe the tread on the stair. Maybe a stone. Who knows. The next moment I was falling forward toward my front walk.  Luckily, I landed in the flowers next to the walk. After laying on the concrete a few minutes to gauge whether my foot or ankle was broken, I finally got up and limped my way to work. That afternoon's doctor visit showed a bad sprain, and I was relegated to several days of Advil, ice bags and propping the foot.  Bummer.

At first I was pissed about the ankle.  I had been slowly regaining my strength and a sprained ankle certainly put a pause into exercising.  What finally comforted me was an ecard from http://www.rottenecards.com/ showing the smiling face of a man and the caption, "Just got a booty call from life. Apparently it still wants to keep fucking me."  I laughed and laughed when I saw that card.  That's exactly what this was. A booty call from life. I could deal with that.  Every time I think about that card, I still laugh. And for some reason, that makes me feel better.

Now I'm off to book my gig as a stripper for a night. Cause as I told my uncle, as long as they're still real, I should put the boobs on stage at least once.  I think of this as the boob swan song. Woohoo.

Prison Hair Series 1

Department of Corrections for Hair

I've decided to document my growing hair in a series of mug shots that I will call my Prison Hair Series.  Here is the first installment. Notice the Jane Fonda fist of power in the front shot.

If you all could help me, and let me know your vote on the important issue of hair color.

Stance 1:  Leave hair the color it currently is and see just what grey might do to my face.

Stance 2: Buy that box of semi permanent auburn and get thee to a red color hence.

What say ye?

Take Me Away From All This Death

I don't even know how to talk about the sorrow I feel. It sits like a cold, jagged space in the middle of my chest.  This Friday I fly back to Wisconsin to finally bury my sister Melissa, the sister who died of a combination of pneumonia and heart attack just before Valentines Day 2011. Her death was so close to the holiday that when I returned to my home after the funeral, I was greeted by a Valentines Day card she likely mailed to me the day she died.

I received the call telling me my sister died while I was talking to a tattoo artist about adding to a piece I'd had done in memory of my mother who had died in August 2008.  That tattoo is a heart with the words "I love you forever" curved around the bottom.  My mother always signed every card, letter, and email this way, and I wanted a permanent imprint on my body to remind me that my mother still loved me forever.  The tattoo artist and I were discussing flowers when my nephew Josh called.  I didn't realize what he was calling about, so I asked if I could call him back.  Once I left the studio and returned his call, hearing the news, I wandered the streets near the studio, not remembering where I had parked my car.  I was stunned and I was in shock.  I walked in that confusion for an hour until I finally found my car. I flew home to Wisconsin the next day to attend my sister's funeral.  My beloved, beloved sister.

Funerals are occasions to get things done. Talk to the funeral home. Order the programs. Create a picture board in memory of.  You're so busy, you don't have time to feel the full brunt of the grief. But when I walked into the room to view my sister's body, that is when I broke down. And when I say broke down, I mean sobbing. Deep, deep sobbing that weakened my body and drew me down to the ground.  My sister was dead. The sister who sent me care packages. The sister who called to make sure I was okay. The sister who sat up all night with me, as my mother died, sitting vigil with me, each of us helping the other through the deadening pain. My sister.

So Friday I fly home to finally bury my sister's ashes a year and a half after she died--my brother-in-law seemed to not be emotionally able to deal with a burial, and only my diagnosis of cancer pushed him towards letting us bury her at all.  Now I sit with the pain freshened up in my soul, reminding me that neither my sister nor my mother are here to help, to call me, to comfort me, to hold my hand through this horrible cancer journey.  Yes, I'm selfish. I want them here to comfort me.  I feel lonely in the world without them. I want them back. Just like my brother-in-law, I don't want to bury my sister either, if it meant I could have my sister Melissa here with me again.

But Melissa is dead, and she left burial instructions.  So no matter how painful the task, I will help to ensure her burial instructions are honored.  Melissa will be buried on a rolling hill, overlooking the Wisconsin farmland she lived on for many years.  It is what she wanted.

Years ago, on my way home, I'd take a short cut through a small cemetery.  Towards the edge of that cemetery was a small grave, a lamb sculpted into the top of the headstone. The toddler buried there died in 1935. And over fifty years later, every week someone was leaving fresh flowers near the stone. I used to wonder about that grave. Was the mother of that barely two-year old child still leaving those flowers? Or was it maybe the sister of that child, the mother leaving an indelible mark of sisterly duty, compelling the living child to continue to leave flowers, even after the mother had died.  Either way, those flowers represented over fifty years of dwelling on death and loss, and that struck me as very sad.

In a similar way, my life has become about death and loss, whether the deaths are those of my sister and mother along with two close friends, or my own possible death due to breast cancer. Whatever the death or loss, I'm tired of it.  As Winona Ryder's character desperately whispered to Gary Oldman's Dracula in the 1992 movie Dracula, "Take me away from all this death."  Her breathy whisper always struck me as Winona Ryder's morbid call for Calgon to take her away.

Like that death-whelmed character in Dracula, I want Calgon to take me away too.  I don't want to lay flowers on anyone else's grave. I don't want to help anyone else die.  I don't want to think about death and dying anymore. Screw Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her death and dying.  I want to live.

Anyone else want join me in being alive? Let's not talk about funerals anymore.  How about we skip the imaginings of end of days and burial plots? Let's focus on babies and puppies and sprouting fields of wheat. Let's wallow in new car smell, freshly planted mint, scrumptious meals, movies that won't be out for years to come. That's the kind of life I want to live. A life focused on life rather than death.  Because frankly, I'm just plain sick and tired of death. So let's all get back to the business of living and be done with it. Damnit.  I'm off to Kmart to buy some new car smell in a can. I'll drive. Wanna join me? Hop on in.

What'd You Call Me?

There are lots of ways to refer to what I have.  Stage IV cancer. Metastatic breast cancer. Advanced breast cancer.  Frankly, I don't like any of these labels.  I'd rather say, "I'm just a touch under the weather. Give me a sec, will you?"

But still, these are the official names of "oh, crap, it's bad" cancer.  Does it matter how I refer to my disease?  A study I read recently says, yes.  In the study, the group referring to themselves as having metastatic breast cancer had slightly higher survival rates than the group referring to themselves as having Stage IV breast cancer.  I know for me that the term Stage IV has always meant imminent and fast-approaching death, so I tend not to use that label.  If asked, I'll say I have metastatic breast cancer. It's the label I prefer.

Lately though I treat my disease as if it is an unpronounceable name; like the Judaic Yahweh, so beyond any human's understanding, that even a label couldn't begin to capture the essence of God.  But instead of this disease being so grand in my mind, it is so frightening, the words sticking in my throat in an attempt to not talk about it at all.  If I don't say the label, but merely motion toward it, I don't give it the chance to terrify me yet again.

It took me a long time to realize that several people assume I am going to die soon.  A look in someone's eyes, a sudden changed experience with that individual and it dawned on me, "Oh, they think I'm going to die."  Luckily I hadn't been thinking that way at all.  I still think of myself turning 70 or even 80. I continue to look down the road to what life will be like when I am old.  It just never really struck me that I was shooting down a path of death. I do think of dying here and there. But that stuck in the craw thought of, "you're going to die real soon" just wasn't happening for me, thank God.

Recently I watched an interview with Michael J. Fox. He was describing what it was like to live with Parkinson's Disease, comparing it to freezing in the middle of the road as a bus hurtles toward you. That is a perfect image for this disease. Frozen with a bus coming down on me.

Here's the challenge. How do I live with that bus on the horizon? Lately, I've been staring at that bus, looking for some sign, some clue. Will the bus hit me hard now? Or will it clip me and leave me disabled and dragging through the rest of my life?

I've talked to people who, although they've survived for years with metastatic cancer, talk only about what they can't do or what they can't have. I've gotten a taste of how hard this journey is going to be. I'm scared of what comes next. But, frankly, the bus may never hit me. I know the odds are low, but I might die many, many years from now of a standard heart attack. So I may live for years with this disease, and I don't want those years to be me focusing on what I can't do or what I can't have.

Yeah, my feet and fingers continue to be neuropathy numb. Yeah, I get up in the morning, or push myself off the couch, and I'm waddling sore. I admit I'm chemo fatigued.  But you know what? I keep pushing myself off that couch. When I see something on the floor that needs to be picked up, I make myself bend over to pick it up because I don't want to live in a littered house, and bending over will give my legs and hips a stretch.  At night, when I lift Pearl, the miniature schnauzer, onto the bed, I pause and lift her above my head several times to strengthen my arms. It might sound stupid, but it's my way of taking it slow, and I figure if I do little things along the way, I'll build up to bigger things down the road.

I remember when I was in Barbados years ago, there were two types of public buses.  One was a government-owned bus, plain blue, simple, gets you around.  The other was a privately-owned bus, tricked out with decorations, raucous, packed with riders, leaving only standing room in the aisles.  The bus I chose to ride was the 50 Cent bus, decorated with oversize images of the rapper, his music blaring loudly from speakers above the riders' heads.  Ice cream in hand, I rode that bus standing, hanging on to the overhead railings, leaning into the curves as the bus careened around the island's twisting roads. That was an alarmingly fun ride.

So maybe that's the bus coming toward me. Loud, glittery, careening around the curves.  At least then when I stare at the bus, I can listen to the music, see the sparkling decorations, and enjoy the raucous crowd taking the ride. It's better than thinking of death.

Also published on CureToday